


I'm Fine

by DaftPunk_DeLorean



Series: Unadulterated Sadness and Angst [8]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Depression, Gen, Steve Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve is in legitimate pain pretty much 110 percent of the time, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 05:06:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6225124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaftPunk_DeLorean/pseuds/DaftPunk_DeLorean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve slowly began to realize that the problem with being a national icon, a hero, and a role model, is that somehow, he became more than human. He become a symbol, not a person. So when he becomes increasingly unhappy, deeply depressed, and utterly adrift in a world where he doesn't belong, the loneliness and isolation are unbearable. How could anyone believe that an iconic hero like himself was really just an ordinary kid from Brooklyn, dying inside because everything he'd gained still wasn't enough to replace everything he'd lost? How could he possibly bring himself to bleed on the ones he loves? So he tells himself the same lie over and over, hoping one day, he'll believe it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Fine

“I’m fine,” Steve said with forced cheeriness, busying himself with tying his shoes. Natasha narrowed her eyes at him.

“Are you sure? Because you don’t exactly look like you slept last night,” she said skeptically, even though her voice was gentle and concerned. Steve just rolled his eyes at her because that seemed like the thing to do.

“I just like to get my run in early, before all the people get out and about. You know how it is, see you later!” he blurted out in a rush, slipping into the elevator before she could get another word in. He immediately slumped against the wall and scrubbed his hand over his face, wondering how many sleepless nights he’d be able to cover up, before the serum just couldn’t compensate anymore. 

Steve chewed his lip absently and twisted his fingers together uneasily all the way down, until he rushed out of the claustrophobic tower and let the rhythmic pounding of his feet on the pavement carry him for hours, until even his enhanced body was exhausted and shaky. It was good to be distracted, even if just for a little while, from the broken record of thoughts in his head that made him want to crawl out of his skin.

**********

“I’m fine,” Steve groaned, rolling his eyes at Sam, who had cornered him in his bedroom, where Steve was folding laundry.

“I don’t know, man, I just don’t see you at the VA anymore for group. It really seemed like it was helping you there for awhile,” Sam asked, frowning at his friend in concern and leaning against the doorjamb with crossed arms. Steve shrugged, keeping his eyes on the fresh pile of towels on his bed that he was folding.

“Didn’t feel like it was doing much. ‘Sides, everyone gets distracted by having Captain America around, and it’s hard for them to focus on why they’re there. I don’t want to take that away from people who really need it,” he said softly, fumbling the towel he was folding. Sam just stood there quietly, and the back of Steve’s neck prickled.

“You know, you’re not a distraction. The others in group, they understand that this is something you need, too. We’d really like you to come back, when you’re ready,” Sam said in the sincerely kind way he had, and squeezed Steve’s shoulder before he left. 

Steve waited until he heard the elevator close, and sank slowly onto the bed, hugging a pile of warm towels to his chest and burying his face in them. He told himself he wasn’t crying, that this was stupid, that he literally had no reason to act like such a baby when there so much real suffering in the world. But here he was, in the lap of luxury with everything he could ever want, feeling like he was barely hanging on. He’d told the others at group that he was doing fine and gave them a winning smile and accepted their hugs and warm encouragement, but even he was getting to the point where _he_ didn’t believe his own lies.

**********

“I’m fine,” Steve mumbled, startled when Bruce repeated his name at least three times, seemingly coming to him in a fog. Steve felt like he wasn’t even in his own body, and was blank for a moment before he realized where he was. How long had be been slumped in this chair, staring out the window? He looked down at his mug, and his coffee was stone cold. He looked back up at Bruce, and Bruce looked worried. Bruce knelt down beside Steve, touching his arm softly.

“Steve, is there anything you need to talk to someone about?” Bruce asked gently, and Steve just looked at him helplessly. He felt confused, like he didn’t know how he was supposed to act. He gave Bruce a weak smile, looking at his concerned, hazel eyes wondering… After all, if anyone had experience in this, could be easy to talk to- Steve immediately shook himself out of that idea, ducking his head. Bruce carried burdens none of them could even fathom. Steve had no right to add to them.

“Just one of those days,” he sighed, turning back to the window, not even aware of how long Bruce stayed there, frowning at him, before slipping out. Steve didn’t even realize that time was passing again, until he blinked and came back to himself, and saw that it was dark outside.

**********

“I’m fine,” Steve muttered, when Clint saw him emerge from his room, a rumpled, greasy mess with red, shadowed eyes and his lips pressed thin. He hadn’t moved from his bed in two days. He asked Jarvis to tell the others that he’d been out of the tower, in case anyone asked. Clint arched a brow at him from his spot on the island countertop.

“Well, you look like ten miles of ass. You wanna come out to the upstate facility with me and Nat? We’re gonna bust up some of the new targets Tony set up in the field. It might turn that frown upside down,” he offered, stuffing a piece of toast in his mouth. Steve just shrugged.

“Nah,” he said listlessly, rubbing the back of his neck and staring into the fridge absently. Clint set down his toast, looking at Steve closely.

“Hey. You sure you’re okay?” Clint asked, and Steve sighed.

“Just thought I had a lead on Buck. Didn’t work out,” he said. The contents of the fridge stared back at him, and the thought of food made him nauseated. He didn’t know which he hated more; the sleepless nights, or the days where he couldn’t even pull himself out of bed long enough to bathe. 

Clint seemed compelled to keep him company and tell him about some target practice game that he and Nat had invented that resulted in at least three broken bones between them, and Steve sat at the kitchen island and ate cereal like an automaton, nodding at the right places in Clint’s story. He stared at his spoon, too tired to lift his eyes, and pushed the bowl away only half-finished. 

“’M gonna go catch a few,” he finally said, shuffling back to his room and curling up into a tight ball in his bed, staring hollowly at the wall until he slept again, only waking up to scream at his nightmares.

**********

“I’m fine,” Steve huffed, taking Thor’s offered hand and pulling himself off the mat with a pained wince. He was so distracted anymore; it wasn’t like him to let so many blows get through, and Thor knew it. Steve adjusted the tape on his hands and got into fighting stance, straightening up with a sigh when Thor didn’t do the same.

“Brother, your mind wanders elsewhere. Perhaps our spar would be better suited to another day?” Thor said, and Steve was self-conscious at Thor’s genuine concern. Steve chewed the inside of his cheek. Thor didn’t need to know how Steve was forgetting every little thing, how he couldn’t focus on anything because the dark thoughts in his head swirled too madly. Thor didn’t need to know that Steve was constantly fighting to shut up the little voice that kept telling him that he was supposed to die seventy years ago, not live this godforsaken nightmare for a damnable eternity. 

So instead, he shook out his arms and bounced a bit on his toes, giving Thor a smirk.

“C’mon, old man, I ain’t got all day,” he said with a teasing tone, releasing a breath in relief when Thor took the bait and grinned with a spirited growl, getting into fighting stance.

**********

“I’m _fine!_ ” Steve shouted over the pounding rock music in Tony’s workshop. “Can you please turn that shit down?!” Tony obliged, and they exchanged friendly scowls before Tony leaned back on his stool, looking at Steve with a cool, piercing appraisal that made Steve uncomfortable, because Tony was a hell of a lot more perceptive than he lead others to believe.

“I don’t know. I think it would be good to get you out of the tower. Feel your oats a little. I’ve got a villa in the Riviera, I could fly you out for a little privacy, maybe-“

“Jesus. Tony, I said I’m fine,” Steve muttered, rolling his eyes. Tony just raised both hands in an unbothered gesture, as Steve went back to staring at the schematic of some new armored uniform design that Tony had come up with. The lines of the uniform and the fine, detailed notes were just a jumble to him. Not that he didn’t understand them; it’s just that his brain was just too tired to process what he was looking at. It was like that with a lot of things these days. Everything just seemed too much.

Steve stared blankly for some time before he realized Tony was waiting on him, and he looked up, waving the tablet with an indifferent gesture, unable to even remember any of the new details.

“Yeah, Tone, it looks great. Whatever you think will be best,” he sighed, giving Tony a false smile and a squeeze on the shoulder, then getting out of there as fast as he could, before he snapped at his best friend for no reason.

**********

“I’m fine,” Steve whispered to himself, gazing at his reflection in the mirror, his eyes heavier than an old man’s, resting in the face of a child. He almost hated it, this routine. Life in the tower, relative safety, friends who checked up on him. It gave him too much time to think. Too much time to hear his own grief. Too much time to dwell on every person he’d lost, every nightmarish minute spent in the trenches of the war, every crushing, lonely second of his life in a world that took him in, but that he’d never truly be a part of.

He screamed inside for someone to notice that it was _killing_ him, that he was _dying_ right in front of them, but at the same time, he couldn’t bear the thought of being a burden to the people he loved, to hurt them with his own weaknesses. He hated that his life now was so good, that he had the _gall_ to hurt this much when there was so much _real_ suffering in the world. He had no right to feel this way, _no right at all_. Even if he told his friends, he didn’t deserve their compassion, not when others needed it more.

He spent hours just sitting, staring at his art supplies with burning guilt, wanting to do something with them, but barely able to muster the energy to bathe, let alone tackle something creative. If he was in bed, either he lay there for hours, restless, or he slept entire days away, like he hadn’t slept in weeks. Everything that had ever brought him joy just seemed hollow and meaningless now, and his favorite books gathered dust, no matter how much he beat himself up about being lazy.

**********

“I’m fine,” he choked out in a strangled cry as he collapsed onto the bed one night, trying to will it to be true. He pressed his face into the pillow and twisted the sheets in his fists until they ripped, his body aching with the effort it took not to scream. He gulped air, suffocating from the crushing guilt and grief and terror and numbness, telling himself over and over that he was weak for wanting to find a gun and take the easy way out, but a coward for not being strong enough to go through with it.

He constantly pulled back, desperate to tell his friends, his _family_ , how hard this was, how he’d never felt so desolately lonely in his life, despite being surrounded by people who loved him and cared. He was terrified that this was the best he could ever hope for, that he was a ghost, that his soul had really died in that plane crash seventy years ago.

**********

“I’m fine,” Steve said with forced cheeriness the next morning, when Natasha asked if he was feeling all right. He poured himself some juice and fixed some oatmeal, choking it down automatically. He did what was expected, going through the motions of life with a hollow chest and a winning smile that never quite met his eyes. This was his own burden, not his friends’. He couldn’t weigh them down with his problems.

He whistled falsely while he washed his dish and pulled on his running shoes, forcing himself to do his daily routines that should be easy, but felt like a torture that was slowly killing him a day at a time.

“I’m going running. I’ll be back in a few hours,” Steve said, and ducked into the elevator, slumping when the doors closed. He could do this.

Because he was fine. 

Really.


End file.
